Always Mine
by ellie-kat89
Summary: Tells the life of Ron and Hermione after DH through a long series of OneShots, from love, marriage, children, and heartache. Titled the 'Mine' series.
1. War

Disclaimer: As always, not mine and I am making no money off of this.

**War**

Ron stood in the middle of the over packed infirmary, trying to catch his breath. His shirt was stained with blood and dirt, creating a reddish brown, sticky mess that made the material stick to his skin. It occurred to him then that, even if the battle ended, and the bad guys were ultimately finished, the war was never really going to end. Battle scars still marred the tall, proud walls of Hogwarts, some people were still bleeding, and other people had already died. They had won but it didn't change the fact that wizards and witches had lost their lives. His own brother was among them.

Voldemort's spell had rebounded on him less than four hours ago, but it already felt like it had happened days ago, perhaps even years ago. Since that fateful moment when Harry had finished the Dark Lord off with no more than _Expelliarmus_, many of them had been shifting through the rubble, trying to find anymore bodies. A few were still missing and were feared to be dead. The west side of Hogwarts had been badly damaged, and parts of the upper portions had been completely destroyed, leaving heavy stones littered on the surrounding grounds. There might be people under there, and there were. The first time Ron had come across the heavy smell of blood and the body of one of their own fighters, he had fought to keep back his tears, along with the contents of his stomach. He wasn't too sure of who that person was, but thought it might be a seventh year Hufflepuff he couldn't remember the name. It felt like a crime, or a sin, not being able to remember her name.

He had never cried like he had cried that night. There were tears shed upon Fred's death, there were tears when he had to tell his mum about it, there were tears when he had clutched Hermione to his chest, as they were gathering around Fred's motionless body, and tears of bitter sweetness when Voldemort had died. He had never cried so much in his entire life.

"Mr. Weasley?" someone whispered next to him, a worried note in her voice.

He had been so lost in his thoughts that he had forgotten that he was still in the infirmary. He had been able to forget for that one moment that he had just helped Oliver Wood carry a body up to the room that they were using as a makeshift morgue.

Next to him stood Madame Pomfrey, her face set into grim lines as she looked at him. Her normally crisp white apron was bloody, just like shirt, and her graying hair was damp with sweat.

"What?" he asked.

"I think you should stop now, Mr. Weasley, before you collapse from exhaustion. Someone can take over for you," she whispered again, her voice soothing.

"But I can't, there could still be people under there, I can't just leave them."

"You are one of the few that have to rest, Mr. Weasley. You will be of little help to anyone if you collapse, in fact it will only cause more trouble for others," she replied, her voice turning crisp as she pointed to the Gryffindor Tower. "Go and sleep now."

The thought of a warm, comfy bed was actually appealing, so he followed her advice, only half reluctantly. He climbed the stairs in a haze and reached the portrait hole a few minutes later. A Death Eater had ripped the portrait of the Fat Lady off its rightful place, and it was now leaning against the wall. The Lady was not there, she was visiting another painting somewhere in the castle. With the Fat Lady ripped from the wall, there was no door or other barrier, so one could just climb through, to the Gryffindor Common Room. He climbed through, and the dying fire in the grate met his eyes.

At first, he thought no one else was there, but then he saw the bundle of blankets, placed on one of the sofas in front of the fire. He approached quietly and listened to the even breathing of the sleeping figure. It was Hermione, and most of her face was obscured by the large quilt. While she was sleeping, all traces of war were gone from her traits, and all that was left was peacefulness.

He remembered their kiss, and, like the moment of Voldemort's death, it seemed to have passed days ago, too. The kiss had been something so amazing and breathtaking, in that moment of living hell. The light of the dying, flickering flames made her skin glow, and, all of the sudden, Ron longed to hold her and to kiss her. He longed to wake her up and just do that, but he firmly stopped himself when he looked down at his filthy clothes. There would come a time for that, later. Hermione suddenly seemed to be the light at the end of a long, crumbling tunnel.

He left her there and walked up the boys' staircase, immediately heading to the boys' restroom. His hands on either side of one of the sinks, he looked up at himself in the mirror, and was shocked by what he saw. His cheeks were streaked with dry blood, and dried tears, and through all that there was heavy red stubble across his jaw. He looked nothing like himself. He breathed in and out, deeply, and stripped out of his clothes, jumping inside one of the showers, trying to wipe off the evidence of war from his skin. He bore the image of Hermione, sleeping peacefully, in his mind as he washed.

**A/N: Please review:)**


	2. Mine

A/N: Set 20 years after the events of Deathly Hallows. These one-shots will not be posted in order but in the order in which I write them. So, to keep it all strait I will be telling how old the charcters are and the number of years after DH.

Hermione and Ron are both 38.

**Mine**

It was more than she had ever imagined, being with him. He was at his most gorgeous when his lips were pressing hers and he was deep inside her, loving her slowly. It was more than she had ever dreamed. Ron calls her beautiful, he calls everything about her beautiful: her breasts, her face, and her hair. He called her beautiful even when she didn't feel beautiful.

Sometimes she dreams of losing him, that she has lost him to the war that has been over for three years. She wakes up drenched in sweat and has to bite her lip to prevent herself from crying. But he just wraps his arms around her and makes love to her until she's crying out his name in sweet release. When he slides into her, he calls her his.

"You're mine," he groans, his piercing blue eyes dark with arousal.

Hermione could get lost in those eyes, the blue depths would call to her in an erotic, hypnotic song. She feels completely safe in his arms and it's only with him that she can give herself completely. As she wraps her legs around his slim waist and bucks up to meet his hard, deep thrusts, she calls him hers. They belong to each other.

"Yours, only yours," he moans, his lips crashing down to hers in a frenzied, hard kiss as their bodies continue to wither together in the perfect rhythm that they had sat out years ago.

Losing him was her number one fear.

He told her that he wasn't going anywhere, that he'd always be there. Hermione remembers him saying this very thing almost 30 years ago as she stares at the newly dug grave of her husband. Friends and family surround them as the casket lowers into the ground, he's gone forever, he'll never come back to her, and they'll never make love again. 50, that's too young to die. Gathered around her are their children; they had three in their 30 years of marriage. Their eldest grandchild, a redheaded little girl with an impish face, is clutching the long skirt of her robe. Hermione bends and picks up the child, the weight of the three-year-old feeling good in her arms.

"Mum?" Hugo whispers behind her, her son looking at her carefully as Hermione buries her face in the girl's bushy red hair. "I'll take her if you want me to."

"No, I want to hold her."

The little girl clutches her grandmother harder and is confused why Hermione cries, she's too young to understand.

They start burying the casket and all Hermione wants to do is to scream and to throw herself into the hole, too. He can't be dead, he promised her all those years ago that he'd always be with her. It's some grave mistake, he can't be dead. Now she feels like running. She can't face this. She turns her head slightly and watches as silent tears fall down Molly Weasley's face.

50, that's too young to die. 50, that's too young to leave your wife husbandless and your mother with one less son. He can't be dead, he can't. But then Hermione's eyes open and she finds herself staring at the wall of their bedroom, which is illuminated slightly by the light from the muggle alarm clock. Her heart beats like crazy within her chest, but she finds comfort in the warmth coming from the other side of the bed. Ron is still there, Ron isn't dead, it had only been a nightmare. A nightmare set into the distant, frightening future.

Knowing that she will never be able to go back to sleep after the dream, she quietly gets out of the bed, careful not to wake Ron as she wraps the robe around herself. It's an old robe so it doesn't fit around her swollen belly but at least it keeps her arms warm. She feels the baby flutter inside her and puts her hand on her belly as she walks down the hall to check on Rose and Hugo. They are both sleeping soundly and so she goes to the brand new nursery. It's a pretty and gender neutral yellow that she'd picked, although Ron hadn't liked it very much. She hears footsteps on the floorboard down the hall and knows it's Ron.

"Is there anything wrong?" he asks as he walks into the nursery, his own robe wrapped around him.

"Just a nightmare, I'm okay," she replies, as she turns around from the crib and faces him. She walks towards him and he pulls her to him in a hug, and then a kiss.

He holds her for a long time as they sway to their own internal beat. He can tell by the little shivers passing through her spine that it was one of her normal nightmares.

"I'm not going anywhere, 'Mione, at least not for a long time. Not until I'm as bald as can be and you can't see me anymore, which will actually be a good thing, that way you wouldn't see my baldness."

She laughs lightly and holds him tighter.

"I'm not going to care if you're bald."

"And I'm not going to care if you go blind."

"That's always nice to know," Hermione laughs again.

"You're mine, and so I'm not going anywhere," Ron tells her, becoming serious as he strokes her hair.

Hermione nods and buries her face in his robe.

"Come on, we'd better get you back to bed. Soon-to-be mothers shouldn't be wandering the cold halls this time of night," he states firmly before suddenly sweeping her into his arms, and carrying her back into their bedroom. Hermione silently laughs as he does so.

He tucks her back into bed and crawls in by her side. He gives her a long, deep kiss before drifting back of to sleep, his arms still around her.


	3. Live This One Moment

**Live This One Moment **

The tears are coming even when he doesn't want them to. He wishes he could just stop feeling for a minute, but he cannot; he can't stop remembering. The horrible twisting in his gut won't allow him to. He feels like retching, but he knows that the pain, the loss of his brother won't go away like the contents of his stomach will. As he stands there, the sun's weak, early rays beginning to filter through the orange curtains by his bedroom window, he remembers the emptiness of George's eyes. They had been haunted with sorrow, and lifeless: they had looked like Fred's eyes, as his body was laying in the Great Hall.

Ron doesn't hear his bedroom door open, but, when he feels the sudden presence behind him, he turns. Hermione stands there, her hair far more wild than usual, and her deep, brown eyes still a bit groggy after sleeping.

"What are you doing here?" he asks her, cursing himself as his voice cracks at the last word.

She bites her lip, but stands her ground, looking up at him, as he stares down at her.

"I can't sleep anymore, and I could hear you moving about … I was wondering if you were alright," she whispers back; she doesn't mention how lonely she feels, especially after Ginny suddenly had got out of bed, a few hours before. Hermione had distinctly heard Harry's bedroom open, and then close.

"I'm fine," he replies, wishing his voice wasn't so weak.

Suddenly, he realizes that he is practically naked, having only his boxers on. He grabs a pair of pyjama bottoms, quickly tugging them on. He's unable to look at her as he does so. When he straightens back up, she stands closer to him. He can see every detail of her face. There are still traces of tears around her eyes, and she is looking at him like he had never seen her do before. They are alone and she is only wearing an old shirt and a pair of pink pyjama bottoms, while his chest is bare. His mind goes back to the kiss they had shared in the middle of the battle. He had wanted it to go on forever, the feeling of her pressed against him.

Ron closes his eyes, breaking eye contact with her. This feeling that he had was unknown to him; it frightened him. He'd never been this close to Hermione before, not like this anyway. Their souls were bared, and Ron had to look away from her. This emotion has been too strong for his mind to truly comprehend. He kept his eyes closed, yet he could still feel Hermione's presence in front of him. He inhaled sharply when he felt her cool hands touch his face. Her fingers ran through his hair, her soft thumbs skimming over his temples as she did so.

Suddenly she was pressed against him, and Ron felt her lips against his; she stood up on the tips of her toes, to properly reach him. Her arms wrapped around him as he started to kiss her back enthusiastically. In the very back of his mind he realized how much better this kiss was, compared to the other one. Through her thin shirt, he could feel every inch of her body, every soft, curvy inch.

Backing her up against the wall, he realized that any normal friendship that they would wish to have after this would be effectively shattered. But that idea quickly flied out of his mind, when he felt her hands against his chest, not pushing him away, but pulling him closer.

She whimpered and moaned as she shifted slightly in his arms, feeling his erection press against her belly. Her stomach fluttered, and she wondered if the moment was real. Was she dreaming again? No, she didn't think so, none of the dreams were ever this good. They paled in comparison to the real thing.

They separated for a moment, in order to breathe properly, and Hermione laid her head against his chest, where she could hear his heart beating faster. His hands travelled up the back of her shirt, exploring the soft skin of her back, as they breathed together. His fingertips, rougher than her own, trailed to her tummy, and slowly inched upwards, but she pulled away slightly, and he stopped before lowering his hands.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

She shook her head and said:

"I was lonely, sleeping so far away from you. I'm not used to you being so far away. I couldn't stop thinking about everything, about Fred - and I couldn't stop thinking about you. I know it's selfish, and it feels so wrong to me, but I realized how easily I could have lost you; it could have been you instead of Fred, and I'm glad that you're still here, even if he's not. I wanted to make sure that you were still real," Hermione finished, tears running down her face.

Ron nodded in understanding, swallowing hard, tears threatening to come again as she movesd away from him, stepping aside.

"I could have lost you, too, and at Malfoy Manor I thought I had. I screamed for you, hoping you would hear me. I could hear you screaming, and at that moment I would have killed anyone for having hurt you."

Ron turned around and saw Hermione sitting on his bed, looking at him.

"I remember, I remember you crying my name."

He felt his heart skip a beat, and swallowed the ball of overwhelming emotion building in his throat. They had never spoken this way to each other before, he realized. When they did have a deep sort of talk, it was always about Harry. The emotion was making him feel uncomfortable but, at the same time, it made him want to say more, say the stuff he had been wanted to say since he was fifteen. He hated Krum and he wished that he had been the one to dance with her at the ball. He wished that the thing with Lavender had never happened; he wished that he had never made Hermione cry.

Unable to say anything, with his throat so constricted, he could only sit down next to her. on his bed. Taking a deep breath, he took her hand into his. For some reason, holding hands at that moment, when they had just shared so much, meant more than the wild snog that they just had.

Ron looked at his clock, and saw that it had just turned to half past six. He knew that his mother wouldn't be up to wake them, like she normally would ,and that they still had a couple of hours before they had to face the day again. Without saying a word, he laid down on the bed, pulling Hermione down with him. He was thankful that his sheets had been washed less than a week ago. She didn't say anything as he pulled the top sheet over them, and settled down next to her. He put his arm around her waist, breathing the soft, floral scent of her hair, feeling her completely relax against him.

She was able to fall asleep a few minutes later, but Ron, with the woman that he was fairly certain he was in love with (even though he wasn't ready to tell her that, yet), lying so closely against his chest, he was distinctly uncomfortable. As her breathing became even, his mind began to wander. He couldn't block the image of Fred - lying dead in the Great Hall, with George leaning over him. He didn't think that image would ever leave him. But as Hermione made a little noise in her sleep, and shifted slightly in his arms, he thanked whatever higher power decided not to take the woman he loved away from him. He held her tighter, yet not enough to wake her. This was what life was truly about, he realized, smelling her hair again. The reason he was alive was so that he could live this one moment.


End file.
